


Spinning and Falling

by wordaddiction



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Cosette is kind of gay, Drinking Games, Eponine rolls with is, Grantaire is hot, Love Triangle, M/M, Modern Era, Party, Spin the Bottle, Unrequited Love, bahorel is awesome, enjolras is dumb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-04
Updated: 2014-01-19
Packaged: 2018-01-03 10:44:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1069526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordaddiction/pseuds/wordaddiction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cosette and Eponine host a Christmas party. Courfeyrac likes to kiss people and Grantaire loves Enjolras (what else is new). After a revealing game of Spin the Bottle, Bahorel confesses a secret and Enjolras acts strange (more so than usual). </p><p>Mostly this is just a lot of kissing and confessing, with some emotions thrown in for fun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Spin the Bottle

Jehan arrived first.

“I brought mistletoe!” he shouted, not half a step through the door. Eponine laughed and went to greet him, cupping both his cheeks in her warm hands.

“I don’t need mistletoe to kiss you, my poet,” she smiled and pressed her lips to his forehead. The man brushed her off amicably and continued the rest of the way inside. The apartment, which was shared by Eponine and Cosette, was decorated in soft fairy lights and candles that smelled of sweet things and evergreen trees. Sprigs of holly dotted the tabletops, and there was a tray of warm cookies lying in wait in the living room.

“My, Cosette, you’ve been busy,” Jehan squealed as he deposited his contribution to the party in the kitchen and gave the blonde a quick hug. “I feel like we’re in a movie,”

“Why would you assume it was all Cosette?” Eponine pouted.

Jehan raised a doubtful brow at her, as if daring her to say otherwise. Before she could concede, however, the door swung open and a band of three men rushed in.

“—I can’t believe you really forgot the cake,” Combeferre growled.

“No one told me it was my job to remember it!” cried Grantaire.

“Hush, the both of you,” Courfeyrac stamped the snow out beneath his feet and unwound his scarf as he turned to greet the others. “Cosette, Eponine! How wonderful to—is that mistletoe?” The man grinned and promptly turned his hug with the small brunette into a lithe dip, kissing her loudly upon the lips. She squeaked and pushed herself back up.

“Courf! How many times must we tell you! You have to give us warning before you kiss us against our will!” she muttered.

Cosette laughed and took all of their coats. “Besides, that’s holly, not mistletoe. And you weren’t even under it, you were _next_ to it,”

“I brought mistletoe!” Jehan declared from the living room, where he was making work of the plate of cookies. Courfeyrac gleamed.

“Now _there’s_ someone really in the Christmas spirit. Good work, Jehan. I look forward to making use of it,” he shot a smooth smirk towards the other man, whose cheeks blushed red in the dim light of the candles.

“Ah, bugger off,” Grantaire scowled, plopping down next to Jehan and snagging a cookie for himself. “No one wants to kiss you,”

“Grantaire, dear, don’t be jealous. There’s plenty of me to go around,”

The artist rolled his eyes and popped open the beer he had brought.

It wasn’t long before everyone was there. Bahorel, Musichetta, Feuilly, Marius, Bossuet, Joly, and finally Enjolras came shivering through the door and depositing their coats on the bench.

“Enjolras! I didn’t think you’d come!” Cosette flung her arms around the other blonde, who merely patted her childishly against the back.

“I can’t stay for long,” he said weakly.

“Oh, shut up!” Eponine yelled from the kitchen. “Come have a beer!”

“No thank you, I need to be suitable to drive,”

Feuilly appeared from around the corner and grabbed the leader’s hand, dragging him down to where the rest of them lay talking and laughing. “You’re no fun,” he sighed.

“So I’ve been told,”

The only seat that appeared to be open was beside Grantaire, on the couch. Enjolras hesitated for a moment before sitting stiffly.

“A pleasure,” the artist drawled sarcastically, already two drinks in.

“Likewise,”

“Well we’re all here! What do we want to do?” chimed Cosette.

“SPIN THE BOTTLE!” Courfeyrac yelled at a rather extreme volume. The entire room seemed to roll its eyes.

“Aren’t we a little old for that?” asked Joly.

“Never too old, my dear doctor, only too boring. Grantaire, hand me that bottle,”

Grantaire made no move to get it, instead reclining in his seat and smiling with amusement. He felt the heat of Enjolras’ shoulder against his and wondered how long it would take the blonde to notice and inch away from him. He counted seventeen seconds before he shifted a bit, but did not move away. Grantaire took a long drink and hoped that Enjolras would not notice his slight rouge.

“We’re not going to play spin the bottle,” Bossuet announced.

“Actually,” attention was turned to Jehan as he spoke, who instantly grew self-conscious. “It might be kind of fun,”

Grantaire’s brow shot up. “Hungry for a kiss, little one?”

“I always knew I liked you best,” Courfeyrac laughed and bounced into the space on the other side of Jehan, though there really wasn’t room enough for him to fit. It resulted in the poet half beneath his friend, with Courfeyrac’s arm draped over his backside. “You heard the man! Circle up!”

Grudgingly, everyone formed a haphazard circle around the center table.

“Do you even realize how dangerous this game is?” muttered Joly, but no one listened to him. Courfeyrac jumped forward and grabbed an empty bottle.

“I’ll go first,”

After the ceremonious spin, the bottle landed on an exasperated Marius.

“Come here, lover boy,” Courfeyrac grinned. The other glanced nervously at Cosette, who gave a small shrug, then leaned forward and pecked the man gruffly on the lips. He sat back, cheeks cherry red and hands twisted together. “I can already feel myself falling in love with you,” Courf cooed. Marius’s blush darkened.

“I’ll go,” Jehan squeaked from beneath Courf. He leaned forward and gave the bottle a forced spin, watching as it died down. He sucked in a breath when it finally ended pointing at Enjolras. He looked over at him sheepishly.

“If you must,” Enjolras sighed deeply. He leaned over R and placed a short, precise kiss on the poet’s soft lips, then reclined in his seat, notably closer to Grantaire than before. The rest of them cheered childishly.

“Wow, Enjolras. Was that your first kiss?” Eponine asked, incredulous. He shot her an icy glare and she leaned back in her seat, as if by force. “I was just asking,”

“No, as a matter of fact, it wasn’t. I don’t know why you all seem to think I am incapable of romance,”

“Because you _are_ ,” Grantaire groaned, half without thinking. Enjolras seemed about to shout, but clamped his mouth shut instead.

“Think what you like,”

And suddenly, all Grantaire could think about was Enjolras kissing someone. And it was odd, as if lips tainted his godly exterior and colored him human. It was such a mortal act that Apollo couldn’t possibly partake in, and yet he had. Or so he claimed.

“My turn, then,” Grantaire shrugged and felt his fingers grow hot as he reached for the bottle. It twisted and slowed to a stop in front of Bahorel, who sat grinning across from him.

“Ready to kiss me, mate?” he asked. Grantaire laughed and leaned across the table. Bahorel mirrored him, and he felt their lips meet. Grantaire was just about to pull away when he felt the slow movement of the other’s mouth against his, and then the slight trace of his tongue inching along the crease of his lips. A bit surprised, but not altogether put out by the movement, the artist allowed his lips to part and Bahorel wasted no time in advancing himself. The room fell silent around them as everyone watched the exchange with wide eyes.

“Ahem,” Eponine cleared her throat loudly. Only then did Grantaire pull back slightly, his eyes locked on the other. Bahorel held his gaze for a moment, his mouth quirking into half a smile before he sat back down. But R stayed where he was.

“ _What_?” he breathed.

“My thoughts exactly,” said Feuilly.

“What just happened?”

“Excuse me?”

A chorus of questions erupted in the room and Bahorel just leaned back and laughed lightly to himself.

“Bahorel, are you _gay_?” Grantaire stared.

“Aren’t you?”

“Well yeah, but everyone knows that. I had no idea you were…”

“Who knows what I am?” he shrugged, popping a cookie into his mouth, which Grantaire couldn’t seem to stop staring at.

“That was HOT,” Courfeyrac shouted, then began a slow clap that only he continued. “Ten out of ten, truly. You can go again, if you like,”

Grantaire threw a pillow at him, completely unaware of the cool eyes of Enjolras blaring into the man across the room.

The group continued until everyone was too drunk to care and a good quarter of them were asleep or close to unconsciousness. Enjolras sat in discussion with Combeferre, Feuilly and Bossuet were playing tic-tac-to with empty beer bottles, and Bossuet, Eponine, Cosette and Marius sat huddled together laughing over some video on one of their phones.

Grantaire groaned as he got up. His shoulders and spine snapped back into place as he stretched, then stepped (only a little wobbly) into the kitchen. He bent over the fridge, in search of another beer, and did not hear the other enter the room.

“So,” Bahorel was leaned against the counter, arms folded in front of him. Grantaire turned around, beer in hand, and swung the refrigerator shut.

“So,” he repeated. “You’re not gay, but you’re not straight, eh?”

Bahorel let out a lucid laugh and shrugged. “Something like that,” He stared at Grantaire for a while, silent, before asking abruptly “Did you enjoy kissing me?”

Grantaire stood frozen for a moment. His grip tightened on his bottle and he flicked a glance unconsciously towards the living room, where Enjolras was still engaged in thorough conversation. He laughed nervously.

“I mean, yeah,”

Bahorel took a step forward.

“Enough to do it again?” he asked, his voice low, and Grantaire would be lying if he said he didn’t feel a jump in his stomach.

“Bahorel, I—“

“—am in love with Enjolras, I know,”

Grantaire blinked at him dumbly. He felt the man’s hands find his waist and the space between them was nearly closed as he stepped forward.

“You know?”

“R, _everyone_ knows,” Bahorel let his lips brush against the artist’s jaw line, sending a shiver down his neck.

“Does… _he_ know?” he breathed.

“If he has half a mind and any common sense,” Bahorel pressed his lips to the skin he had been hovering over and ran a neat trail of kisses down his jaw, until he was stopped at the corner of Grantaire’s mouth. He pulled away and looked intently into his eyes. “Which, knowing Enjolras, he probably doesn’t. I really can’t say. I know you love him, R, but it’s just a party and we’re both a little drunk. I’m guessing you’ve been depriving yourself of any sexual activity for that blonde bastard, and you deserve so much more than that. Let me take care of you,”

Grantaire bristled under the other man’s touch. “I don’t know—“

Suddenly, Bahorel’s hands grew more firm against his waist and he was pushed back against the counter. He felt himself being hoisted up onto it, and then the other man’s lips were against his, harsh and demanding. Before he had time to think, Grantaire’s arms hung limply for a moment and then found their way around the other’s neck. His mouth was forced open and an intrusive, yet somehow not unpleasant, tongue explored his own. Without his consent, a soft moan escaped him. Bahorel smirked into the kiss.

“I told you,” he muttered, earning him a growl from Grantaire. He only pushed him further against the cabinet, grinding his waist in between the artist’s legs. The slight bulge beginning to grow there encouraged him, and he sent open mouthed kisses down the other’s neck, allowing his hands to travel from his waist up beneath his shirt.

“Jesus, Bahorel,”

“Shut up,” he said throatily and captured his lips in another heated kiss.

“Ah. Sorry to interrupt,” a voice sounded from behind them and Grantaire’s eyes flew open. Bahorel backed away more slowly, but the artist immediately jumped down from the counter, his hands already twisted into a nervous wreck.

“Enjolras,” he breathed.

The blonde stood, evaluating the two of them with an expression R could not read. It was obvious disapproval, but also something more, and he couldn’t for the life of him tell what it was. He felt his cheeks redden.

“Glad to see you’re having fun, Bahorel,” Enjolras spat, his voice hard as he set a plate down on the counter. His eyes drifted to Grantaire, who couldn’t hold his gaze. “Grantaire,”

He stayed a moment longer, then spun on his heels and returned to the living room without another word. Grantaire heaved a sigh and slumped against the refrigerator.

“Fuck,” he muttered.

Bahorel turned to him and stretched a hand out to place on his shoulder, but Grantaire shrugged him off. The taller man’s eyes narrowed.

“Fuck him, Grantaire,”

“That’s the goal,”

“Stop it. Stop thinking about him,” he demanded.

“You don’t understand. It’s not that simple—“

“For fuck’s sake I _know_. But he doesn’t love you. He doesn’t love anybody. He’s cold and heartless and he’ll only ever be disappointed in us all,”

Grantaire shook his head. “I refuse to believe that,”

“Wake up!” Bahorel snapped. He grasped Grantaire’s shoulders and shook him, forcing him to meet his eyes. “You’re in love with marble,”

“You don’t get it—“

“I _do_ get it. I know what it’s like to live every waking moment wanting something you can’t have. To watch someone act perfect and impossible at the same time. To have the most unbelievable person right there, but somehow…untouchable,” he let his hands fall slowly from Grantaire’s shoulders, his eyes glistening with the promise of tears. R watched him, wide eyed and helpless. He stayed pressed to the edge of the refrigerator. “I know what it’s like to be in love with you,” Bahorel said quietly. “And Enjolras is an idiot not to take advantage of your feelings towards him, but I’m tired of watching you waste away on someone who couldn’t make you half as happy as I could,”

Grantaire was speechless. His mouth hung open ever so slightly. His arms tensed up around himself. Bahorel waited.

“Say something. Please,”

“I…” he felt his head pounding and his heart racing. “I…love him. And that’s not something I can just turn off. I had no idea you were even attracted to men, let alone me,”

Bahorel let out a breath and took a step backward, dejection evident on his face.

“And I’m not saying I’m not attracted to you, too. It’s just that I never had a chance to think about it, and Enjolras, well…he…he’s been all I can think about since the moment I met him. I don’t know if that’s something that I’ll ever be able to get rid of. And that’s not fair. It’s completely not fair, for you or me or anyone, but it’s how it is. And I’d be lying if I tried to love you like you say you love me,”

Bahorel nodded grimly, his eyes cast to the floor. “I understand,” he said, nearly a whisper.

“Bahorel, please don’t leave,”

“No, it’s alright,” he gave a not very convincing smile. “Better get back in there. You’ve got your marble to return to,”

With that, he slipped out of the kitchen, leaving Grantaire to stare wildly at the ground and wonder what on earth had just happened to him.

 


	2. Mistletoe Never Hurt Anyone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More kissing. More arguments. More jealousy. Woo.

“Jehan, where’s that mistletoe you brought?” Courfeyrac leaned into the poet’s hair and nipped at his ear. The smaller man shivered. It took him a moment to speak, but he finally found the words to inform the other of the bag of leaves he had placed beneath a chair. Courf grinned and leapt from his seat. He pulled the sprigs out and studied them a while.

“How do you hang these up?”

“How do you still have energy?” Eponine groaned, sprawled out on the floor.

“My heart is simply more useful than yours, lovely,”

Eponine rolled her eyes.

Cosette shuffled over to the man. Her walk was lucid with drink, her eyes lidded and her lips turned into a sweet smile. “Courfeyrac, forget the mistletoe. If you want to kiss someone, we all know you’ll do it anyway,” she stepped up onto her toes and pecked his cheek, earning her a side long glance from Marius.

Courfeyrac scowled. “You know nothing of romance,” he sighed woefully.

“Here,” Jehan grabbed a chair from the table and dragged it into the doorway leading into the kitchen. He removed the painting from above the frame and wrapped the leaves around the nail that hung there, then took a moment to smile proudly at his work.

He was just descending from his perch when a beaming Courfeyrac scooped him up into his arms, leaving the poet’s lungs fresh out of air and an amusing expression of shock splayed across his face.

“It’s perfect!” Courf shouted, spinning him around. He slowed eventually, leaning his head into Jehan’s. “My dear, I believe we’re under mistletoe,”

Jean Prouvaire swallowed. “So we are,” he murmured.

They stood there for a moment, Courfeyrac clutching the smaller man to him like a lifeline and Jehan curling into himself, as if he could shrink enough to disappear altogether. He felt his heart stammer in his chest as the other’s warm breath brushed against his nose.

“May I kiss you?” the raven haired man asked so quietly, Jehan himself wasn’t sure he had heard it.

His eyes widened and he froze, unable to move until he eventually gave a small, slow nod. And then, cautiously, Courfeyrac’s lips were on his. It was nothing like Jean had expected it to be (and he had expected it to be a great many things). It was slow and sweet and…and innocent. The taller man’s mouth stayed firmly closed, gentle and soft against the other’s. He pressed ever so slightly forward, sending an electric shock up Jehan’s spine before pulling away, and instantly he felt the absence. Courfeyrac’s eyes fluttered open and landed upon Jean’s wide ones, which hadn’t found the time to shut properly. He smiled weakly.

“Happy Christmas, Jean Prouvaire,”

The poet tried to reply, but only made it as far as opening his mouth. Courfeyrac chuckled and seemed to remember he was still holding the other, setting him down gently.

“For those of you who still have not received a kiss from me, I will graciously be standing near the mistletoe all night so that everyone can get a chance. Please, please, don’t crowd. There’s enough of me to go around,” Courfeyrac announced loudly. No one moved a muscle, except for the rapidly descending heart of Jean Prouvaire, falling to the pit of his stomach as soon as he realized what exactly had just transpired. For a moment, he really had thought it was special. That maybe Courfeyrac had thought so, too. But the moment passed, and reality caught on. It was Courfeyrac, after all. And Jehan was only a pair of lips.

On the other side of the room, Grantaire walked silently up to a stony Enjolras. He stood in front of him, waiting for the man to look up from the spot he was staring at intensely near the floor. When he didn’t, he cleared his throat hesitantly and sat down across from him.

“Enjolras—“

“I don’t care what you do with your free time, Grantaire. We don’t have to have a discussion about it,” the blonde cut him off without looking up. Grantaire shrunk into himself and sat for an uncomfortable amount of time without answering.

“I just wanted to explain myself,”

“You don’t owe me an explanation,”

“But I want to give you one,”

Enjolras didn’t move. R sighed and tugged on his own hands, wishing that he wasn’t forcing himself to have this talk. But he was.

“Bahorel kissed me,”

“I gathered,” Enjolras snapped.

“And I kissed him back,”

“Wow, this is very enlightening,” he dragged his gaze up towards Grantaire’s face, but it only proved to be worse than having no eye contact at all. His pupils dug daggers into the artist’s skin. He shivered.

“Enjolras, please. This is hard,”

“I’m sure you were. Did he take care of that, too?”

“Enjolras!” R was taken aback by the bitterness in the other’s voice, thick with sarcasm and ill intent. It was not a tone he often heard from the ever golden-hearted leader.

“I don’t understand why you’re so intent on appeasing me. I have no qualms with your pursuit of Bahorel, or his interest in you. In fact, I really couldn’t care less,” Enjolras pressed his lips together tightly and leaned back into the couch, grabbing his beer (apparently you don’t need a designated driver if everyone crashes at the party) from the table and taking a large swallow. Grantaire watched him carefully.

“I didn’t realize my life was of so little interest to you,” he said quietly.

Enjolras let out a short laugh that resembled more of a bark than a sound of humor. “I make certain not to meddle in anyone’s personal life,”

“Then how could you possibly know who they are?” R narrowed his eyes. “ _Do_ you know who any of us are?”

The blonde head of curls snapped forward and Grantaire was met with chilling blue eyes. “Of course I do. Don’t accuse me of bad friendship. Your little escapade with Bahorel has nothing to do with my loyalty,”

“It’s got everything to do with it! You’re indifferent about me!”

“I’m indifferent about your feelings towards Bahorel!” Enjolras growled.

Grantaire clenched his fist. He tried very hard to focus on the man before him, and not the growing silence of the rest of the room. But it was tangible. He glanced around, meeting the eyes of each of his friends, who were now looking at him like he was crazed. He shoved himself up from the chair and glared down at his leader.

“Fine, then,” he spat, then stalked over to where Bahorel was leaning against the wall, watching the exchange wordlessly, and slammed his mouth against the other’s. Grantaire shoved himself against the man, thrusting his hips hungrily and devouring every bit of skin he could salvage with his tongue. The kiss was greedy and angry, like a fight with their lips. And they continued, even when everyone sat stunned into a dazed silence. Even when bruises began to form on his arms from where Bahorel was gripping him. And even when the door slammed, leaving them one angelic leader short. 


	3. The Benefits of Winter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I told you there would be lots of kissing. Cosette might be a little gay. Jehan and Grantaire have a bro talk.

“I always liked winter best,” Jean Prouvaire said, his voice distant and dreamy as he traced patterns in the snow out on the balcony. Grantaire leaned against the wall and sipped on his beer. The air was cold enough to numb his gloveless fingers and paint his cheeks red, but he didn’t so much as shiver. Simply stared.

“It’s cold, but it’s beautiful. And there’s Christmas,” Jehan smiled to himself. “And there’s cookies and snow and lights. And there’s New Year’s and evergreens,”

Grantaire said nothing.

“I’ve written poetry about all of them, you know. The seasons. Spring, summer, fall. But winter has the best poems,”

Nothing.

Jean flicked some snow off of the railing and sighed, placing his chin in his palm. “It’s because winter is sad. And sad poems are the best,”

Grantaire paused as he brought his drink to his lips, but only for a second. He shifted slightly from one foot to the other, and the poet turned around.

“I bet you’ve written poetry before,” he accused.

Grantaire raised an eyebrow.

“You have, haven’t you? I know you paint, I’ve seen your apartment,”

“When have you—“

“Ha! He speaks!” the shorter man squealed and R scowled irritably. Jean shuffled over to him and leaned against the wall so that their shoulders were pressed together. “You told me to pick up my text book while you were at class. Your paintings, Grantaire. They’re beautiful. The most beautiful I’ve ever seen. Why don’t you tell anyone about them?”

Grantaire shrugged and took a swig of beer. “It’s just a hobby,”

“Just a hobby my ass,” the blonde nudged him playfully. “They’re phenomenal. You’ll make millions selling your art,”

“That’s a stretch,”

“No, it isn’t. You just haven’t tried. But I bet those fingers make words, too, don’t they?”

Grantaire glanced over at his friend. Jehan always appeared to be in his own little world, doodling or writing or talking about something that no one understood. Everyone loved him, but no one really knew him. It had always been that way. So now, alone on the balcony with nothing to distract him, it was strange to discover that maybe the poet knew him better than he could say for himself.

“I’ve tried,”

Jehan grinned. “You have to let me read it,”

“Absolutely not,” R laughed bitterly.

“But Grantaire—“

“No!”

“I won’t laugh at them,” the blonde clutched his arm.

“You say that now,”

“Even if they’re about Enjolras,”

Grantaire froze. He abandoned his smile and shrank back into the wall, as if it could swallow him completely.

“Does everyone really know?”

“Yes,” said Jehan simply. “But that’s alright. Love isn’t meant to be hidden,”

“If only it were that simple,” the brunette pulled a cigarette from his pocket and spent a good minute trying to light it before he felt the stiff inhale of smoke. He held it out to the other, but was refused, and took another drag.

“Sometimes it is,” Jehan said quietly.

“Is it that way with Courfeyrac?”

Jean’s eyes snapped wide open and he turned abruptly. “What are you talking about?”

“Oh please, _mon poete_ , you’re not the only one with eyes. I’ve seen how you look at him. And your little stunt with the mistletoe,” Grantaire smiled softly and placed a hand on his shoulder. “It’s alright. I don’t think anyone else knows,”

Jean’s lips parted, still in shock, and he heaved himself back against the wall. “I don’t love Courfeyrac,”

Grantaire shrugged. “Alright, you don’t love Courfeyrac,”

A silence passed between them that could have been measured in pounds. Neither moved. They barely breathed. Suddenly, the snowfall was deafening.

“He could never love,” Jehan murmured after what seemed like forever, barely audible.

“I don’t think that’s true,”

“It is. And if it isn’t, then he could never love me. I’m a romantic, he’s a pleasure-seeker,”

“I think those complement each other nicely, don’t you?” Grantaire decided.

Jean turned to face him warily. “I want to take him to the movies and write him poems and hold his hand in public and drink tea with him and take naps with him and be with him, all the time. All he wants to do is kiss me when he’s drunk enough and forget about me when he’s not,”

Grantaire reached up and wiped a single tear that had sprouted away from the poet’s cheek.

“Oh, love, I don’t think that’s true. Courfeyrac is rambunctious, but he cares deeply for you—“

“He doesn’t!” Jean choked. The tears were beginning to fall more frequently, spilling onto his cheeks like dew drops.

“He’s always near you,” Grantaire pointed out. But Jehan was sobbing.

“He was my first kiss,” Suddenly he sounded gruff, as if he had scratched out the magic and the poetry and was left with only the melancholy and anger that often settled in him. He cleared his throat. “At the bar. I pretended I was as drunk as he was. He fucked a redhead from the table next to us half an hour later.”

There was nothing to say. And because it was cold, and because there isn’t much else to do when the person you loves only knows how to love skin, Grantaire pulled the smaller man into his arms and held him tightly. The wind wrapped around them like icy fingers, but somehow there was solace in the embrace. Somehow there was warmth.

Until there wasn’t. The glass door slid open loudly and the two turned towards the noise, a curious Bahorel stepping out onto the balcony.

“Everything alright?” he asked, looking from one man to the other. Jehan sniffed loudly but nodded, giving Grantaire a grateful smile.

“Yeah, everything’s fine,” Grantaire affirmed.

Bahorel rubbed a hand behind his head. “Jehan, would you mind if I spoke to Grantaire for a moment?”

“Of course,” the poet took one last look at his friend before slipping inside, leaving the two of them to settle into the silence. Bahorel didn’t give them much of a chance, however.

“You don’t love me,” he stated. It wasn’t a question or a sob story, it was just a fact. And Grantaire could not deny it.

“No,” he said quietly.

“And you kissed me to make Enjolras jealous,”

“No, of course not. I just—“

“I’m not angry. By all means, I love games. But I just want to clarify that that’s what happened,” The darker man waited patiently for a response. His eyes were not harsh or probing, which calmed R’s racing heart.

“Enjolras wouldn’t be jealous of anyone. He told me he doesn’t care about my personal life,”

Bahorel rolled his eyes. “He was lying, idiot,”

The artist’s gaze widened. “How would you know?”

“Because I’m not oblivious, like you. And because he left when you kissed me. And because he didn’t really leave,”

“What do you mean…?” Grantaire furrowed his brow.

“His car is still here. He’s down in the coffee shop on the first floor, I’d bet. Otherwise he went for a walk, but then I would _really_ question his sanity. It’s like fucking Iceland around here,”

“Greenland,” R corrected.

“What?”

“Greenland. Iceland is actually grassy and wet. Greenland is the one that’s cold,”

“I don’t give a single fuck, R,” the man laughed with exasperation evident in his face. “What’s important is that Enjolras is _in this building_ , and you’re up here. With me,”

Grantaire worried his lip and finished off the last of his beer. “I’m not going to—“

“ _Go_ ,” Bahorel flung the door open and shoved Grantaire through it, then slammed it hard behind him. He watched through the glass as Grantaire stumbled, straightened himself, and after a long moment of holding curious stares, grabbed his coat. His eyes followed the other all the way out the door.

Strange, how the cold is just bitter enough to distract from the dull rip of heartbreak, but not enough to forget that it’s there.

 

 

“Okay,” Cosette slurred lazily. “Truth or dare,”

“Cosette, we went over this. We don’t need to play a middle school party game to talk to each other. Just ask me something,” Eponine was sprawled out on the couch, her head resting on the blonde’s lap and her feet brushing against Marius’ leg at the end of the sofa. Feuilly an Joly sat across from them.

“You’re no fun,” the girl stuck out her tongue childishly. Eponine laughed.

“And you’re acting like Courfeyrac,”

“I take offense to that!” Courf yelled from the kitchen. He appeared moments later with a bowl of popcorn and plopped down on the floor beside them. “What’s this I hear about middle school party games? Why was I not invited? Jehan!” he caught sight of the poet coming in from the balcony and waved him over. “Come play middle school party games with us!”

Jean smiled weakly and hesitated, as if he was deciding whether or not to take him up on the invitation, but ended up sitting next to his friend and stealing a handful of popcorn.

Eponine rolled her eyes, but gave in. “Fine. Dare,”

Cosette giggled. “I dare you…to…” She ran her fingers through the girl’s hair and thought for a long while (longer than necessary, but that was the consequence of Cosette and alcohol). Finally, she squealed. “I dare you to take off one article of clothing,”

“Are we twelve?” Ep groaned.

“You picked dare!” Cosette shoved her, whining.

“Fine, whatever,” The girl sat up and shrugged off her sweater, exposing her long arms as she was left in only a thin undershirt. It wouldn’t have been so exciting if they all weren’t so drunk, but they were, and it was, so the act earned her a chorus of exaggerated moans. She threw the sweater menacingly at Cosette.

“Alright, you, then. Truth or dare,”

“Truth!” Cosette nearly shouted.

“Okay, what’s something that secretly turns you on?”

There was no pause for thought. The word simply spilled from her lips like it was the simplest answer in the world.

“Girls,”

Everyone stared. It took her a moment to realize that no one was responding to her, but eventually Cosette glanced around and her eyes widened. “What?”

“Girls?” Eponine asked.

“ _Girls_?” Marius echoed.

“ _Girls?!_ ” Courfeyrac yelled, grinning.

“Girls,” Cosette shrugged. “They’re soft and pretty and sooooo nice. I like nice things,”

Eponine began to laugh. “First Bahorel, now you. Who else is secretly gay?”

Cosette frowned. “I’m not gay. I just like to kiss girls, too,”

Marius sat, his eyes wide and his brow furrowed as he continued to stare at his girlfriend. He shifted uncomfortably. Cosette glanced at him.

“Does that bother you?” she asked, far too innocently for her own good. Marius shook his head.

“No, no not at all,”

And it was true. Marius wasn’t homophobic (you couldn’t be, in this circle of friends) and he wasn’t uncomfortable with the fact that his girlfriend was suddenly attracted to people that weren’t him. It was the image of his darling, angelic Cosette having fantasies about women that stirred him, and the sinful thoughts that made him uncomfortable.

“How do you know?” Eponine shot curiously.

“What?”

“How do you know you like to kiss girls, too? Have you ever kissed one?”

Cosette smiled sheepishly. “No, but it sounds nice,”

“YOU HAVE TO KISS EACH OTHER NOW!” Courfeyrac shouted. Everyone in the room jumped and Cosette simply blinked at him.

“What?”

“Oh come _on_. You can’t just _not_ kiss each other now that you’ve said that,” he groaned. “It’s like a natural law,”

“Not everyone lives by your laws of sexuality, Courf,” Eponine shooed him off warmly. “If we did, the world would be much more populated,”

“I wouldn’t mind,” Cosette said. Once again, she found everyone staring at her. This time, she shrugged and turned to Marius. “Would you be okay with it?”

Marius felt red flush his cheeks but nodded quickly. “Of course,”

Then Cosette turned to Eponine. “Would you?”

“ _Would I kiss you_?”

The blonde nodded, as if this were the most natural question in the world. Eponine sat up and searched her eyes critically.

“I can’t tell if you’re serious or just drunk,”

In response, Cosette leaned forward and captured her friend’s lips in a quick, harsh kiss. She pressed into her, but was quickly pushed off and held at arm’s length by the other. Courfeyrac whistled garishly as Eponine’s lips fell open.

“Sorry,” the blonde mumbled.

“Don’t be sorry!” Courf yelled.

“Shut up,” Eponine snapped, but turned her gaze softly back to Cosette. Quietly, she asked “Did you like it?”

After a moment, the girl gave a small, sheepish nod. Eponine smiled slightly, her hands moving from her friend’s arms to cup her cheeks as she leaned in for a slower, deeper kiss. At some point, their tongues found each other and their lips became more than just skin. Cosette’s hands searched for contact and began running up and down the length of Eponine’s thinly clothed sides.

“Jesus Christ,” Marius breathed after one too many moments of the display. His face was flaming and he was trying hard not to watch with hooded eyes, but it proved more difficult than he might have thought. This was _Cosette_ after all.

Eventually, the two broke apart and grinned at each other. Courfeyrac yelled for an encore, Feuilly and Joly just laughed lazily, and Jehan sat with raised eyebrows. How much more kissing could this night handle?

“I think you broke him,” Courf chuckled and poked Marius’ leg. Cosette turned to her boyfriend and crawled into his lap.

“Are you okay?”

He nodded.

“Are you sure?”

He nodded.

“I’m sorry if that was weird. I promise I love you most,”

“Hey!” Eponine scowled, but made no further interjections.

“Are you sure it was okay?” Cosette probed.

He nodded.

The blonde sighed and patted his chest delicately. “Aren’t you going to say something?”

Marius swallowed.

“Can you do that again?”


	4. There Was Love Here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire finds Enjolras. Jehan gets real with Courfeyrac.

In all of his life, Grantaire had seen three romantic comedies. After the third, he had promptly decided that no more were necessary, because the same thing happened in each one. Someone fell in love with someone else, said someone else was in love with the first someone (though they didn’t know it), and someone 1 or someone 2 made a grand, romantic gesture that resulted in the inevitable kiss, proceeded by “happily ever after.” It was all bullshit.

In real life, Someone 2 never really loves Someone 1. In real life, he goes on with his days, oblivious to the fact that Someone 1 spends every waking moment hoping for something more. In real life, Someone 2 never really loves at all.

So that’s why Grantaire felt hopeless and insane and desperate all at the same time, and he wondered if this was what it was supposed to be like. The grand romantic gesture part. He knew that walking into a coffee shop and laying eyes on a blonde head of hair, quietly sipping a cup of coffee as he stared out the window was hardly worthy of the title, but he figured it was the closest he was going to get. And perhaps his barely-shaped knowledge of romantic comedies was what gave him the courage to walk up to the man, quietly pull out the chair opposite him and ask if the seat was taken.

“Go ahead,” Enjolras nodded absently, his eyes still focused on the snow outside.

Grantaire sat down, but said nothing. His heart was going too fast to allow his mouth to work. Eventually, Enjolras glanced at him.

“Can I help you?” The words were more biting than Grantaire expected. In the second he had had to make up the theoretical conversation in his head, it had not started like this. He shifted uncomfortably.

“You’re angry,” was all he could manage.

“No. Why would I be angry?”

“Why would you storm out of a party?” R shot back. The blonde stiffened, then took a slow sip from his mug.

“I’m surprised you managed to pull yourself away from Bahorel. Won’t he be missing you?”

“He’s not my boyfriend,”

“Could have fooled me,”

The look in Enjolras’ eyes was so piercingly angry that Grantaire’s fingers dug into the sides of his chair.

“Why do you hate me?” he blurted out. As soon as he said it, he recoiled into himself, as if doing so would erase what had already happened. Enjolras raised an eyebrow and sighed, more fed up than surprised.

“I don’t hate you, Grantaire,”

“You don’t like me,”

“I do like you,”

The flutter in R’s chest angered him. The fact that such meaningless words in such ridiculous context caused a physical reaction in his body was the lowest blow he could take at the moment. He shook the thought from his head and persisted.

“Then why are you angry every time you talk to me? And why do you act like you have no time for me?” he felt the heat rise in his chest and leaned forward across the table. “Don’t act like that’s just the way you are, Enjolras. I know you. Don’t you think I do? After all this time, don’t you think I see that you are perfectly capable of laughing and having a good time with everyone except me?”

Enjolras stared at him without response.

“God, Enj, what did I ever do to you? Am I _that_ fucked up, that you can’t even attempt a friendship? Is everything I do so fucking stupid that you can’t be around me?”

“My, you’re eloquent tonight,” Enjolras muttered.

“That’s what I’m talking about! Everything out of your mouth is an insult,”

“It wasn’t an insult, I was just—“

“It was a comment on my actions that alluded to the fact that you dislike my personality,” Grantaire said forcefully. He didn’t know where all of this was coming from, but wherever it was, it had been there for too long. Even as he continued his accusations, he could see Enjolras becoming further and further away, as if R was pushing him himself. It was the last thing he wanted, but the only thing he knew how to do.

“Grantaire, I’m not trying to change you—“

“But you are. Ever since you met me, you’ve been telling me where I went wrong. Disproving everything I say. I’m not an argument you can win, Enjolras. I’m just me. Just me,” he sat back in his chair and ran a worried hand through his curls. He could feel the heat in his cheeks blazing, but couldn’t bring himself to care.

“Don’t act like you haven’t done the same to me,” Enjolras said.

“What?”

“You’re constantly going against everything I say. You take the seat furthest from me at the meetings, even when there are plenty closer. You don’t invite me to your parties and you barely speak to me in the first place, so how do you gather that I’m the one who dislikes _you_?”

Grantaire blinked at him.

“Would you have come if I did invite you?”

“You wouldn’t know, you never have,”

The two sat in stunned silence for a moment. Everything seemed so contradictory to everything they had once thought to be true, yet nothing had really changed. The air felt heavy.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” Grantaire added softly, an afterthought to the initial chaos. He looked down at his hands.

“I never thought you were an argument,” Enjolras mentioned. “I was never trying to win,”

“But you did anyway. You always do,”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Enj,” Grantaire looked at him, his head tilted, his voice soft.

“What? What are you talking about?” he looked more flustered than R had ever seen him.

“You’ve won all of us. We’re all here because of you. You must know that,”

“That’s not true—“

“It is true,” Grantaire assured. He searched the other’s eyes for a reaction, but found only confusion. How could he be so oblivious to everything that went on around him? And how could Grantaire want so badly for him to know? “If it weren’t for your voice, none of us would have found each other. Everyone in that apartment is there because, at different points in time, we heard you speak. And we heard what you stood for. And you made us stand for it, too. It was all you, Enjolras. You’ve always won. And you always will win, as long as you’re fighting. We’re fighting too,”

For a moment, one single fraction-of-a-second moment, Grantaire thought he saw a glimmer of hope in his friend’s eyes. A glimmer that mirrored realization and appreciation, perhaps understanding or even a bit of acceptance. It was beautiful. And it was gone.

“You’ve never fought for what I believe in,” was Enjolras’ reply. R’s eyes narrowed.

“Don’t say that,”

“Why? It’s true. You only ever come to our meetings to drink, socialize and occasionally care enough to argue with me. You don’t care about our cause,”

“Don’t. Say. That,”

“And the worst of it is that I want you there. I want you to help and be a part of the ABC. But you’re only ever sober enough to give half your attention, and even then it hardly counts for anything. If you’d just stop drinking so much—“

Grantaire shoved his chair back and stood up.

“I’m sorry I can’t be enough for you,” he spat.

“So am I,”

As he stormed out of the café, shoving his arms into his coat and tugging his hat over his head angrily, there was one thing that hurt Grantaire the most. Just before he left, the last thing he saw in Enjolras’ face was beauty. The last thing he felt was love. And he knew he was a lost cause.

 

“Truth or dare,” Courfeyrac nudged Jehan playfully after Cosette was appropriately snuggled between Eponine and Marius, and they were all ignoring the way her fingers danced sneakily against the other girl’s thigh.

Jehan grimaced. “I think I’ll just watch,” he said quietly.

“What? You can’t be serious. I thought I could always count on you to participate in wild party games!” Courf clutched his chest, feigning heartache. Jehan smiled weakly.

“I’m just a bit tired,”

“Then I’ll be generous and give you truth,”

“Courf, if he doesn’t want to play, he doesn’t have to,” Feuilly said softly.

“I disagree,” the oblivious raven haired man slung his arm around the smaller and grinned mischievously. “Alright, Jehan, my boy. Tell us who you fancy,”

“My god, you really are 12,” Eponine rolled her eyes.

“If I am, then I am _very_ good looking for my age,” Courfeyrac wagged his eyebrows at her and turned his attention back to Jean. “Go on, then,”

“Oh,” Jehan smiled weakly. “You know me. My heart belongs to the page and the page alone,”

“Boo,” Courf retrieved his arm and turned his entire body towards the other, placing his chin in his hands. “You need to have a more interesting love life so I can live vicariously through you,”

“Shouldn’t I be the one living through you, Courf? Your bed is far more popular than mine,” he laughed.

“True. But my bed is far more popular than anyone’s, so that’s nothing to be beaten up about. I can’t help that I’m flawless,”

“And modest, too!” Cosette giggled, then nuzzled into her boyfriend’s shoulder. Marius was only half watching, still dazed from the previous events.

“Well if you don’t fancy anyone, then I think I’ve earned another question,”

“Show me your worst,” No one detected the sadness in Jehan’s voice. Perhaps it was for the best.

“Out of everyone in this circle, who would you most like to sleep with?”

A nervous, drunken laughter whispered its way through the group of friends, mostly driven by wine and lazy joy. Jehan froze, unsure of what to say exactly.

“You, of course. How could I resist?” he leaned over and nudged Courfeyrac, who grinned widely.

“I should have known. Who else would it have been?”

“Yes, who else,” he murmured.

 

An hour later, the party was a dull buzz of conversation and sectioned off groups. Marius, Eponine, and Cosette had mysteriously disappeared down the hall, and Jehan found himself only mildly amused by the scandal. He watched from across the room as Courfeyrac lay on top of Feuilly and spoke to him more softly than he had spoken all night. The poet knew it was time for him to go home. But an empty house seemed even worse than this, so he stayed in his corner and sipped on beer that he didn’t really like.

Eventually, Courfeyrac rolled off of his friend and made his way over to Jean. For a second, he thought he was going to sit by him, but then the man reached for a cookie from the plate beside him and stood munching it loudly.

“You okay?” he asked through a mouthful of gingersnap. Jehan looked up, surprised.

“Yeah, why?”

“You’ve been sitting here for an hour looking like your family just died. Not to mention you’ve been acting weird all night,”

“What…?”

“Yeah, like sad and distant and weird. What’s wrong?”

Jean didn’t really know how to respond. Courfeyrac was a social man, of course, but he was hardly observant. In fact, he seemed to be less so than Enjolras, and that was saying something. Jean had never thought him to have a bad heart, and he knew the man cared for his friends more than seemed possible, but it was the noticing that wasn’t his strong suit. So to hear him recount his actions from hours ago was stunning, and didn’t leave much room for response.

“I don’t…I’m not…nothing,” he stammered. Courfeyrac tilted his head and sat down beside him.

“Did something happen?”

Jehan shook his head.

Courfeyrac nodded thoughtfully and sat silent for a while.

“If something did happen, you know you can talk to me, right?” he asked, his voice completely changed. It was dulcet now, almost nervous. As if he was the one unsure of what to say.

“Thank you,”

“Of course,”

There was a long pause that didn’t need filling before Courfeyrac spoke again. “Can I ask you something?”

Jehan nodded.

“Back there, during the game,” he gestured toward the place they had been sitting before. “Were you telling the truth?”

“What do you mean?”

He fidgeted. If Jehan didn’t know better, he’d say the man was nervous. But he did know better, and this was Courfeyrac he was talking to.

“When you said that you’d like to sleep with me,”

Jehan felt his heart shudder over its own rhythm. He sat still, urging something else to have been said, even as it sat stagnant in the air between them. What was someone supposed to say to that?

“I, uh…well that’s not exactly what I said,” he managed.

“Because I would, you know. Sleep with you. If you wanted,”

The poet simply looked at him, eyes wide and lips parted. Courfeyrac averted his gaze.

“You would?”

“Of course. If that was something you wanted. Or needed. Or whatever,”

“Like a service?” Jehan asked bitterly.

“I mean, I’d enjoy it, too. I just don’t want you to think that I’d ever deny you something,”

Jean laughed and took a long drink from the beer that tasted like broken things and sand. He stood, set the bottle on the table beside Courfeyrac and spread his arms wide in offering.

“Let’s do it, then,”

“What?” Courf looked taken aback.

“Fuck me to fill the aching void,” he drawled.

“That’s not what I…Jehan? Are you…are you alright?”

“No!” he shouted, drawing attention to them. “As you so studiously noticed, I’ve been “sad” and “weird” all night, and I clearly need you to put your dick in me so that I can be happy again. So let’s get on with it. Should we do it here? Or maybe we could join Eponine and Cosette, I’m sure you’d love to help them with _their_ sadness, too, wouldn’t you?”

Courfeyrac’s eyes were rounded, terrified. Jean had never seen him shrink before, but that was exactly what was happening. He was sinking back into the couch like it was swallowing him, or maybe that’s what he wished it would do. For a man of such charisma, he was entirely too penetrable.

“Jehan, I think you’ve had too much to drink,”

“Ah, you think, but you are wrong. I’ve had just enough to drink. Enough to take you up on your offer. Come on, then. Fuck me, Courfeyrac,”

“I didn’t mean to offend you…”

“You offered your services and I’m accepting,”

“Not like this, Jehan,”

“Then like what? Under what circumstances would you have sex with me? When I’m sad and desperate and upset?” he inquired, growing louder with each question. Courfeyrac looked increasingly more uncomfortable, as did everyone else in the room. “When I’m alone? When I _need_ it? Would you like some tears for effect? Does that get you off?”

“Jesus! What’s the matter with you?” Courfeyrac finally stood, towering over the poet and reclaiming his usual intimidating height. “I was just offering a favor!”

“Because having sex with you would be some huge gift to me!”

“You know that’s not what I meant,”

“No, it’s exactly what you meant. You felt sorry for me and you figured you’d give me what everyone wants,” Jehan’s fingers curled into fists and he clenched his teeth together. His head was beginning to hurt.

“I don’t know what else to give!” the brunette admitted, stepping closer to the poet. “That’s the only way I’ve ever made anyone happy! I didn’t think it would make you so upset!”

“I don’t want you to have sex with me to make me happy,” Jean squeezed his eyes shut. He would not cry. He would not cry. He most definitely, absolutely would not cry.

“Then what do you want?” Courfeyrac asked exasperatedly.

Jean blinked back the tears that were forming despite his urges against them, and stared at his opposite through the blurry vision they allowed. He took a deep breath, but didn’t let it back out, instead holding the air in his lungs until there was no choice but to release it. His hands drifted to fist his hair and he knew he would regret what he was about to say.

“I want you to fall in love with me,”

It was the thickest silence there had been all night.

“What?”

Jehan sniffed and let his arms fall to his sides. He shook his head. “I’ve got to go,” he muttered, grabbing his coat from the couch. He could already feel the jabs of self-hatred that would plague him for lots of tomorrows, stabbing every available patch of skin and mind and heart. He had always had a knack for saying embarrassing things, but this had topped them all. This wasn’t just embarrassing, it was stupid and irrational and messy. And unlike everything else he had regretted saying, this would not be forgotten by everyone but him. This was the end of an era of quiet, painful unrequited love and the beginning of loud, awkward exchanges. He could already see himself dodging the man, skipping meetings and avoiding parties. What was he thinking?

“Jehan, wait,” Courfeyrac called as the poet approached the door. He didn’t stop. “Jehan!”

He had his hand on the knob when Courfeyrac grabbed his arm and spun him around.

“Are you in love with me?” he asked breathlessly, searching the man’s eyes with sharp desperation.

Jean smiled sadly and allowed himself to look longingly at the object of his affections. It was strange to see him so in need of an answer, so unsure of what to do. He whispered. “Of course. Who else?”

For the second time that night, Courfeyrac’s lips found Jean’s. There were two differences: This time, there was no plant to prompt them. And this time, it was an act that had to be done. The way that Courfeyrac gripped the poet’s hair and waist and allowed his torso to press against the other’s was so completely vital that it seemed strange to think there was ever a question of doubt.

It was snowing. Jean Prouvaire knew how to write poetry like forests. On Thursdays, Courfeyrac went to the library even though he hated books. On Thursdays, Jehan nestled into the literature section and read for hours. It took Jean seven minutes to walk home on a sunny day. Twelve on a snowy day. And seventeen on a sad day. Courfeyrac’s favorite drink was cream soda.

Courfeyrac had only ever wanted to make the poet happy. And now he knew why.

These were the things that were true.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, so I don't really know what I'm doing. Sorry it took so long to update, for those of you who are consistently reading this. And I wish I could apologize for making this all about kissing but I am actually not sorry at all. Hope you all had a fantastic holiday!


	5. Finding The Lost Parts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bahorel gets laid and Grantaire might possibly actually get what he wants (maybe).

Bahorel used to write stories. They were short, twisted things, but they were stories nonetheless. He would write about strange heroes in distant time periods, villains that were never really evil at all, and magic that made the most beautiful things.

When he was thirteen, he fell in love with a boy who slept with his lights on and wore crooked glasses. He had wild hair and a bent shoulder, but Bahorel thought that he was the most beautiful person he had met. Thirteen year olds have expectations and social norms more rigorous than adults, though, so he remained silent about his feelings and spent his middle school career boxing and reshaping himself to fit into the perfect, straight frame they had built for him.

But one night, in March, the boy was at Bahorel’s house and noticed his notebook lying on his desk. He asked what it was and, upon hearing that it was a collection of stories, asked if he could read them. Bahorel had never showed anyone, but of course, he allowed the boy. He could have asked for the stars and the boxer would have found a way to get them for him. After he was finished, the boy looked at Bahorel and told him that he was the best writer he knew. He told him he could be published.

And though Bahorel had managed to fit into all of his proper boxes, though he had promised himself that there was nothing happening between him and his friend, he was suddenly overcome with the undeniable desire to kiss him. So he did.

The boy never came over, after that. Bahorel burned his notebook.

It wasn’t until he was seventeen that he realized what a mistake that was. It wasn’t even that the stories were particularly well written or that it was some great loss of literature, it was simply that he had destroyed them in an act of anger. An act of self hatred. And he didn’t want to hate himself anymore. He liked boys. He liked girls. He liked everyone, really, except for the people that didn’t like him. And he was okay with that. It was then that he became friends with Enjolras, and everything started to look up from there. He never tried to fit into someone else’s box again.

So when he met Grantaire, it was strange for him to be so cautious about his feelings. He knew that the man was gay, that had never really been the question. But he also knew that he was undoubtedly and unquestionably in love with Enjolras. So, instead of embarrass himself for no reason, he kept quiet about his affections for two years. He boxed with him, drank with him, laughed with him and danced with him, but still he could not win a second glance when he was in the same room as their leader.

This year, Bahorel was tired. He was tired of wanting so badly and waiting so long and watching so quietly. So when that bottle landed on him, he took the chance he knew he might never have again. He told himself that kissing was enough. That if all Grantaire wanted him for was a quick round of tonsil tennis, it would be better than the years of unrequited madness he dared to call love. But of course, it wasn’t. Lips are only lips when they aren’t those you crave.

Now Grantaire was gone, rescuing his love only a few stories below, and all because Bahorel had sent him. He didn’t regret it. He didn’t regret anything. But that didn’t make him any less heartbroken. Maybe this was what he needed to move on, but right now all he could do was grip the railing on the balcony until his knuckles turned white. Eventually, it grew too cold even for his broken heart, and he went inside.

Nearly everyone was gone. Marius, Eponine and Cosette had disappeared. Enjolras and Grantaire were absent for obvious reasons. Jehan and Courfeyrac were attached at the lips near the door, but Bahorel couldn’t draw the energy to be surprised or excited. They’d been in love with each other for as long as he had known them. It was about time they went at it. Feuilly was lying lazily on the couch, his eyes closed but his hands drumming absently on his stomach. Bahorel approached him and sat down.

“How’d that happen?” he asked nonchalantly.

Feuilly cracked open an eye to see who it was, then shut it again. “They got into a fight and then Jehan told him he loved him,”

“Sounds about right. How long have they been sucking face?”

“Not as long as you and Grantaire were in the kitchen,”

Bahorel’s cheeks flushed. “Everyone knew about that?”

“It was literally one room away. We knew,”

“Ah. I see,” Bahorel stretched and slumped back into his chair. There wasn’t enough left of him to care. Feuilly stayed silent a while, then spoke without moving an inch.

“Seems I’m the only person in this damn house who hasn’t been desperately in love with one of us,” he mumbled. He sounded annoyed, but not serious. Bahorel laughed weakly and reached over to ruffle his fingers through the man’s carrot colored hair.

“Congratulations. You have it better than all of us,”

“I wouldn’t say that,” he rolled onto his side so that he was facing his friend and looked at him through bright green eyes. Feuilly was the type of person that was easy to read. He always wore his emotions on his face without caution, and it was refreshing to be able to see to whatever he needed without having to dig for it first. But tonight there seemed to be a whole potpourri of feelings surfacing, and Bahorel wasn’t sure exactly how he should be reacting.

“No?” he asked, retracting his hand from the man’s hair.

Feuilly shook his head. “It’s lonely. You’re all intertwined in this weird web of love and sex and feelings. And I love all of you, but I’m not about to get on one knee. There’s no one that I can make happy. Sometimes, I want to make someone happy,”

Bahorel paused before reaching out and taking his friend’s hand. “You make all of us happy. You don’t need sex to do that, Feuilly, we love you because of who you are,” On any other occasion, he might shoot himself for being so cliché. But it was late, and it was winter, and the rest of the night had already fallen to shit. What the hell?

Feuilly smiled halfheartedly. “Thank you. But when all of you are paired off and happily falling in love, I’ll still be here. Alone. There’s no one left, is there?” he gestured around the room pointedly, stopping to quickly glance at Courfeyrac and Jehan, who were now alarmingly rutted against the wall.

Bahorel scoffed. “Don’t you remember? I’m not ‘happily paired off’ with anyone. I had the grand idea to go falling in love with the man who practically worships someone else,”

“That’s a bit strong,”

“No, he does. He literally refers to Enjolras as ‘Apollo’,”

Feuilly laughed and reached his arm up to stretch behind his head. He stared up at the ceiling for a while.

“I’m sorry Grantaire isn’t in love with you,” he said quietly.

“Me too,”

“If it’s worth anything, you would have made ten times the boyfriend Enjolras ever will. Not that I don’t like him, of course. But Grantaire would have been happy with you,”

Bahorel looked at the man sadly and gave a small smile. “Thanks, mate. That means a lot,”

“I’m not in love with you, though,”

Bahorel raised an eyebrow. “I wasn’t under the impression that you were,”

He shook his head. “The pairs. Everyone being paired off and leaving me alone. Well, us alone. You’re clearly not in love with me, and I’m not in love with you. So this doesn’t really count, does it?”

“No, I suppose it doesn’t,”

“God, I haven’t even gotten laid in like six months,”

Bahorel raised his eyebrows. Feuilly, though gruff at times and capable of being a stereotypical man, was not one to talk about his sex life or objectify women enough to refer to the act as “getting laid.” He had never much seemed to care about it, so the words sounded strange on his lips.

“I haven’t gotten laid in a year,” he said. And that was only if you counted the drunken night he spent with the girl from the bar, which he could only half remember.

“We’re better than that,” Feuilly furrowed his brow. “We’re both good men. We deserve people who make us happy,”

“I’d be inclined to agree with that,” Bahorel laughed lightly. “Unfortunately, I’m not sure that’s how the world works,”

“Well we should at least have people in our beds. We deserve that much, don’t we?”

“Again. Not sure that’s how it works,”

“Well it should be. I’m tired of watching everyone be happier than me,”

Bahorel sat still for a moment. He had never seen Feuilly like this before. His years of experience in dealing with the man were not useful to him right now, and he couldn’t quite tell what he was meant to say. It pained him to see his friend so upset, with no easy fix like there always had been before.

“Sleep with me,” Feuilly sat up suddenly.

“Pardon?” Bahorel tilted his head. He was sure he had misheard.

“Sleep with me. We both need it. Neither of us are in love with each other, so it won’t be cruel on either parts. And I’d rather take you home than some drunk girl from a bar,”

The darker man blinked stupidly, unable to say anything for a good ten seconds.

“Feuilly, I thought you were straight…”

“Everyone thought you were straight until tonight. I don’t know, I’m not really anything. But I can appreciate that you’re one of the most attractive people I know, and that you’re kind and funny and strong. And if those aren’t qualities enough to bed someone, I don’t know what are,”

Bahorel was stunned. His mouth hung open slightly as he tried to form a response.

“Have you been with a man before…?”

Feuilly shrugged and shook his head. “No, but that doesn’t matter. It’s just sex, Bahorel. Between two people that care about each other,” ‘

After a good long pause that may have started to seem like rejection, Bahorel nodded ever so slightly.

“Alright,”

Feuilly grinned and stood up, reaching out his hand for his friend to take. He pulled the other out of his seat and stared at him a moment before grabbing their coats and shoving Bahorel’s respectively in his arms. He took his hand and pulled him to the door.

“Excuse us, gents,” he chirped brightly, pushing Courfeyrac and Jehan out of the way. They stopped briefly to watch the two of them leave. Jean eyed their attached hands and smiled brightly, but they didn’t interest him long enough to keep from reaching back up to continue kissing Courf.

As they descended the stairs, a heavy set of footsteps met them.

“Grantaire?” Bahorel asked, seeing his distraught face and instinctively reaching out to touch his arm. Feuilly’s grip tightened in his hand. “What’s wrong?”

“Enjolras is an ass,” he sneered, hardly noticing the state the two of them were in. “Are you guys leaving?”

“Er..yeah. Are you going to be okay, mate?”

“Yeah, I’ll be fine. Is anyone else left up there?”

Bahorel gave a sheepish laugh. “Well, yeah, but they’re all rather…engaged…”

Grantaire nodded in understanding and looked strangely up the stairs to the hallway. He sighed.

“I’m just going to go home. I’ll walk with you?”

Bahorel glanced at Feuilly, who returned with a sort of trapped expression. It then turned into one of sad knowing, and he let go of his friend’s hand, nodding towards Grantaire. Bahorel flitted his gaze between the two.

“Actually, I was going to head over to Feuilly’s for the night,” he said suddenly.

Both Grantaire and Feuilly’s faces wore expressions of surprise. R looked back and forth between the two men, as if trying to force himself to understand. The realization hit eventually, and he took a step back.

“Ah. I see. Sorry, I didn’t realize the two of you…I didn’t know…”

“We’re not,” Feuilly supplied, finally able to close his half parted mouth. “We’re both just in need of company,”

Grantaire didn’t look entirely convinced, but nodded solemnly. “I’ll just see myself home, then,”

He began to head down the stairs. For a moment, Bahorel might have let him go. He really might have. He stood, watching the artist descend, his arm brushing against Feuilly’s and his mind focused on the fact that he might finally be able to be around Grantaire without aching. But just as that head of hair was disappearing from view, his instinct got the better of him.

“Grantaire!”

The brunette’s face peered back around the corner of the staircase.

“What did Enjolras do?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Grantaire replied, already turning around again.

“It does matter,” Bahorel insisted. “Why is he an ass? Aside from the obvious reasons,”

At that, R cracked a loose smile. He sighed. “I told him he was the reason why we were all together and he told me I drank too much,”

“What else did he say?”

“That I’m not good enough for him,”

Bahorel froze. “He said that?”

“Essentially. But it’s alright, Bahorel. I always knew he didn’t like me. I guess I just thought maybe…maybe I was wrong. But I wasn’t,” Grantaire laughed bitterly. “You two have fun tonight,”

“Why don’t you come with us?” Feuilly said abruptly. Bahorel looked at him with raised eyebrows. Comfort sex was one thing, but this was taking it to a whole new level.

“Nah, that’s alright. I think I just want to sleep in my own bed right now,”

“Are you sure?” the redhead stuck his hands in his pockets and gave R an encouraging smile. “We’re watching Christmas movies,”

Bahorel tried not to laugh.

Very briefly, Grantaire looked like he might accept the offer. He opened his mouth slightly, then closed it. “I’m gonna go home. Thanks, though. Night,”

“Hey, Grantaire?” Bahorel called after the man had disappeared again, bringing him back into view for the second time. “You know he’s not good enough for you, right?”

R smiled. “Thanks,”

Bahorel mirrored him, then watched him leave. Once sure that he was really gone this time, Feuilly turned to his friend and looked at him pointedly.

“Are you sure you want to come over?”

The darker man nodded, still watching the spot where Grantaire had last been. “If you’ll have me,”

Feuilly slid his hand around the other’s and wrapped their fingers together. “Come on,”

 

Grantaire hated snow. He hated it more than he hated dry paint and empty bottles. It was cold and wet and it managed to get into every wrinkle of his clothes. It made it hard to see, hard to walk, hard to drive and hard to ride (on the occasions he did manage to mount a bicycle). There were no benefits to it, as far as he could see. And he was especially displeased by the chilling nip that bit at his cheeks as he trudged home in the blizzard-like weather.

Tonight had been something of a disaster. What started out as a party ended in too much kissing and his relationship with Enjolras becoming even worse than before, which he hadn’t thought possible. Grantaire kicked at a bit of snow as he scowled to himself. Even Bahorel was on his way to Feuilly’s (Feuilly, of all people) to inevitably wind up in bed together, and R was going home to an empty apartment. The empty apartment was nothing new, but tonight it seemed so much more desolate, knowing everyone else was happy and together.

“Grantaire!”

R thought maybe he was imagining the voice at first. The wind was so loud that it disguised sound as garbled mumbling. It wasn’t until he felt a firm hand on his shoulder and turned around that he realized he wasn’t alone. A hunched, shivering Enjolras met him with an icy gaze.

“Enjolras,” he said, more out of surprise than greeting.

“Where are you going?” the blonde yelled over the wind.

“Home,”

“Can we talk?”

“Don’t you think we’ve done enough of that?” R scoffed.

“No,” Enjolras replied seriously, rubbing his hands together for warmth. “How far is your apartment?”

Grantaire shifted from foot to foot. Was he really asking to come over? Four years, and he had never been to the apartment. Four years, and now all of the sudden it was as natural as anything to assume it would be alright.

R nodded in the direction he had been walking. “A block,”

“Good, I’m freezing,”

Grantaire didn’t really know what to say, after that. He only continued to move towards his building, unable to truly conceive the idea of his Apollo following him home. He knew there was no real implication to it, but it was still something he never thought would happen. He kept his eyes on the ground before him and was careful not to walk too close to the other man.

When they reached his apartment, R let them in and immediately regretted it. He hadn’t even thought about the fact that his living quarters were a complete disaster: bottles, paints, various art mediums and even more canvases, dirty plates and clothes. It seemed as if everything had exploded throughout the rooms. He shoved a few things aside with his foot so that they could get through to the living room, then snagged the sketch journal and case of charcoal from the couch.

“Um…can I get you anything?” he asked, reaching up to scratch the back of his head as Enjolras sat down. The blonde looked around curiously.

“Water would be great,”

Grantaire nodded and disappeared into the kitchen. If Enjolras had had any doubts as to whether he was really a good-for-nothing slob, they were surely gone now. What was he thinking, letting him come?

He returned with two glasses of water and set them down among the piles of sketches on the coffee table, then sat stiffly beside him on the couch.

“So…um…you wanted to talk,” he started.

“Yes,” Enjolras sipped on his water, but made no further move to initiate conversation. Grantaire waited expectantly.

“Er…about what?”

Enjolras replaced the glass on the coffee table and turned so that his full body was facing the artist. “I don’t think you’re not good enough for me,”

Grantaire blinked. “What?”

“I don’t think you’re not good enough for me. I realize that may have been what it seemed like—“

“That’s what you _said_ ,”

“—no, it’s what you heard,” Enjolras replied calmly. “I only meant that you have more potential than you’re allowing yourself to fulfill. And I wish you would,”

Grantaire didn’t know whether to be elated or angry. He found that was often the way around his golden leader. Everything he said was some sort of cryptic mess of insult and praise, competing with the fact that the very act of him talking to R made his heart beat faster. Even though every sentence seemed to have some disapproving tone, they were still sentences directed towards _him_. How was he supposed to react?

“I think you’re mistaken,” he said quietly.

“I know I’m not. I’ve seen you when you’re sober. Rarely, but I have seen it. You’re quick and witty and you have more intelligence than most of the men at university,”

Grantaire froze. He couldn’t exactly feel his limbs. Or his chest. Or anything, really.

“I want you to utilize your intellect,” Enjolras said firmly. He looked Grantaire up and down, as if attempting to gauge his reaction.

R tried to form words, but they didn’t come. He reached up to scratch the back of his head. He had never heard Enjolras speak so highly of him.

“That was all, really,” he said after a few moments of stiff silence. “I just wanted to make sure that you knew what I meant,”

As he stood up, Grantaire followed him to his feet. “I can’t just quit drinking,” he blurted suddenly.

Enjolras raised an eyebrow. “Why not?”

“Well because…because…I can’t!”

“That doesn’t seem like a very legitimate reason at all. Do what you like, Grantaire. I only hope to see you at next week’s meeting,” he took his scarf from the couch, then added “Sober,” and made for the door.

“You came all the way over here just to tell me that?” Grantaire inquired, realizing that the man he was in love with was about to step out of his apartment, and would likely never return. The selfish part of him tried to think of anything that might make him stay. The rest of him knew he would not.

“It was important,”

Enjolras stood with his hand on the door knob for a beat too long, and Grantaire stepped forward. He didn’t know where these bursts of courage came from, only that they peaked his valleys of self-hatred every so often and made him seem gutsier than he really was.

“Why did you leave the party when I kissed Bahorel?” It sounded much more like a demand than he intended it to.

Enjolras cocked his head slowly. “What?”

“You stormed out as soon as I kissed him. Why?”

A silence erupted between them, during which Grantaire felt his courageous outburst shrink inside of him. It was a habit of his to immediately regret the things he said after he had said them. He mentally kicked himself for the questions, but all he could do was wait for the response.

“I don’t appreciate public displays of affection as much of the rest of you,” he said shortly.

“But people were kissing all night, and you didn’t leave then,” _What are you doing, Grantaire? Shut up._

“They weren’t rutting against a wall, practically fornicating through their clothes, were they?”

Grantaire felt a blush run to his cheeks. “I wasn’t…”

“What do you want me to say? That I was jealous and couldn’t stand the thought of you kissing another man?” Enjolras scoffed. “Don’t flatter yourself, Grantaire,”

The artist felt his stomach drop. That was the first time Enjolras had ever alluded to the fact that he knew how he felt. For years, Grantaire was able to casually swoon from a distance. Silent, aching, hidden. He always thought that his reverence was somewhat under the radar, until tonight. But even after Bahorel had informed him that his love was not as secret has he had originally thought, he didn’t think that Enjolras had clued in on it, too. Now, he felt everything shift inside of him. Had Apollo known the whole time? Was he only making a fool of himself?

Grantaire stood with his mouth open, frozen in place. “I never…I didn’t say…”

A hint of sympathy seemed to flash in the blonde’s piercing eyes before he spoke. “Why did you kiss him, anyway?”

“Because…because I wanted to…” he stammered.

“That’s not what he told me,”

Grantaire blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Bahorel told me that you didn’t really want to,” he shrugged, as if this was not the most important conversation R had had in his entire life. “He said you were angry upset and he told you to kiss him. I still don’t really know why you did, if you didn’t want to, but…I guess everyone relieves stress differently,”

“When the hell did you talk to Bahorel?” Grantaire narrowed his eyes.

“He stopped in the coffee shop on his way home. He told me you had misunderstood what I said, so I came after you,”

Realization hit the artist in one fluid motion. He shuffled back and fell into a seat on the couch, his hands finding his tangled hair. It made so much sense, but he couldn’t believe that the man would do that to him.

_To him or for him?_

Was it an act of revenge or love? He couldn’t be sure. Slowly, Enjolras moved to sit beside him. He was close enough to touch, if Grantaire only leaned a little to his left. Instead, he stayed put.

“Why were you angry?” Enjolras probed.

With a sigh, Grantaire rubbed his face and rested his elbows on his knees. “I was angry at you,” he confessed.

“Me?”

“Yes, you. You were acting so strange and hostile toward me. I thought you had finally decided that you hated me,”

“I couldn’t hate you,” Enjolras said simply, as if it were a truth that everyone knew, perhaps embedded in text books and taught to the world as children.

“I couldn’t hate you, either,” Grantaire said this more to himself than to the other man, grieving over how very true those words were. No matter what Enjolras said or did, he had never hated him. He physically couldn’t. That was perhaps the most infuriating bit.

“Then why do you kiss people to spite me?”

“I hardly think I spited you by kissing Bahorel,”

“How would you know?”

Grantaire looked at him curiously. This conversation was much more confusing than he ever imagined. But then, that seemed to be his entire relationship with Enjolras.

“Because we’ve never been close, Enjolras. Because you may not hate me, but you clearly don’t care much about me. And if you do, it’s not in the way that would make you uncomfortable with me kissing someone else,”

Enjolras stayed silent. R leaned in a bit. “…is it?” he asked.

The blonde leader remained quiet. Grantaire felt his heart hammer in his chest.

“Enjolras…?”

Suddenly, the blonde lunged forward and placed a quick, chaste kiss on the artist’s lips, then ducked back. It all happened so fast, Grantaire questioned whether it had really happened at all. His lips parted in confusion.

“What?” was all he could say.

For the first time ever, Grantaire saw a flush of red reach Enjolras’ cheeks. He averted his eyes and took a deep breath, getting to his feet. This time, R could not find it in himself to follow. The leader stalked quickly to the door and pulled it open with force. He stopped halfway through and turned around, standing awkwardly in the frame.

“Sometimes, I wish you would kiss me, instead,”

And with that, he closed the door behind him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I was debating finishing this with this chapter, but then I thought I might stretch it out into another. Feuilly and Bahorel kind of just disappeared, but I could probably write what happens there if anyone shows interest. Let me know what you want out of this story, and I'll see if I can make it happen.


	6. Some Sort of Ending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Courfeyrac and Jehan love each other and Enjolras and Grantaire do too, but they're a lot dumber about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've made this the final chapter of the fic, simply because I feel like any more would be stretching out a story that's already past its prime. But if anyone is interested, just comment and tell me something you'd like to read more of and I will try my best to fill it! If there is demand, I'll add more to this or just write new things. Thank you so much for reading!

Jehan ran his nimble fingers over his swollen lips, as if he could feel Courfeyrac kissing him even after he had pulled away. He stared up at the man with glazed eyes and wondered if perhaps this was a dream. A silly, cliché thought, but it seemed the only plausible option. He was pressed against a wall, Courf’s hands like anchors on his waist, and his breath still tangled with the other’s. This was the stuff of fantasy, of late nights and lonely days and the recesses of journals. This was not real. Except that it was.

Courfeyrac brushed a piece of wild hair from Jehan’s face and smiled at him. “I think we’ve repelled everyone,” he whispered, his eyes sparked with the mischief he so often held.

Jean glanced around the room, only to find it empty. He laughed. “So we have,”

Courfeyrac took his hand and brushed over each of the poet’s fingers reverently. Jehan’s breath hitched.

“So…” he swallowed, watching the other man carefully. “What does this…mean?”

Courfeyrac raised a brow in question as he continued to stroke the other’s hand. “Hmm?”

“I mean…what happens now? Are we…are you…”

“We could get out of here,” Courf said slyly. “We could go to my apartment,”

Jehan blushed. “Well yes, I would definitely be in favor of that, but that’s not what I meant,”

“Then what did you mean?”

“I mean…are we just…kissing?”

“Well if you come to my apartment, we can do anything you like,”

Jean fought his rushing heart beat with an exasperated sigh. “No, Courfeyrac. You’re not listening to me,”

“I’m trying,” he said, and Jehan would be damned if his limbs didn’t go weak at the absolutely innocent look of confusion that played at the man’s face.

“After all of this, whether I stay at your apartment or we stop now, what…are we? Are we still…friends?”

Courfeyrac’s eyebrows knit together. “Is that all you want to be?”

“Of course not. I already told you how I feel about you, but you don’t really…well you’ve never seemed one for relationships and I didn’t know what you wanted of me,”

Courfeyrac let Jehan’s hand drop between them and he took a slight step back. It was small, but it still made Jean feel suddenly separate. The blood drained from his cheeks as he hurriedly rushed through all of the things he could have said after a kiss like that. Instead, he had chosen this. What was he _thinking_?

“You think I’m using you?”

“No, that’s not what I meant, I—“

“But you thought that I was just kissing you and inviting you over because you were willing and that’s all I want from people,”

“It’s just that I’ve never seen you stay with someone, or be interested in staying with someone, and I wouldn’t be angry at you because obviously I’ve wanted this for a long time, but I just wanted to know what it was so that I wouldn’t get the wrong idea,”

Courfeyrac took another step back and crossed his arms over his chest. “I wouldn’t do that. I wouldn’t kiss you after hearing you confess that you love me if I didn’t intend to follow through with it. I may like sex, but I’m not an ass,”

Jehan was torn between jumping with elation and shrinking further against the wall because of how angry he had made the other. “I never thought you were an ass,” he mumbled softly.

Courfeyrac let his tense shoulders drop and closed the distance between them. He pressed his hands to each of the poet’s cheeks and looked him in the eyes.

“I think I’ve been in love with you for a long time,” he said, much more calmly than before. Jean was frozen. He felt his heart stutter in his chest.

“Oh,” he breathed.

Courfeyrac leaned down and kissed him gently. It was different than the previous mess of passion and hunger, and more like the kiss he had given him under the mistletoe; surprising, but sweet. When he pulled away, Jehan’s cheeks were cherries and his eyelids were heavy.

“So, to answer your question,” he murmured, “we will be whatever they call it when two people are in love with each other,”

Jehan placed his hands on Courfeyrac’s chest and grinned. “I think they call it ‘happy’,”

“Sounds about right,”

They kissed once more, long and languid, before Courf pulled him away from the wall. “Come on, let’s go,”

Jehan had never been happier to oblige.

 

“WHAT?”

There was no one in Grantaire’s apartment except for the man himself, but he couldn’t stop himself from yelling into the emptiness after the door shut behind Enjolras. The word sat in the air a while, but after it had dissolved there was still a lump in the artist’s throat and a look of panic in his eyes.

“WHAT?” he yelled again. He didn’t know why he was doing it. Who was expected to hear? Who was expected to answer? He got up and ran his hands through his hair, then spun on his heels to stare at the door. That didn’t happen. That had definitely not just happened. That wasn’t something that _could_ have happened.

He marched up to the door and put his hand on the knob, determined to run after the blonde and tackle him, demand an explanation or confirmation or _something_. He stood there, fist clenched around the metal, trying to find the strength to turn it. It did not come.

Eventually, Grantaire fell face first onto his couch and banged his head against the pillow. Enjolras had broken him.

Two stories below, a tall blonde leaned against the wall of the apartment lobby and knocked his head back, eyes rolling to the ceiling. He let out a huge breath.

“You alright, man?” the doorman called from across the room.

Enjolras nodded. “I just kissed someone,”

“Congratulations,” the man laughed. “Was it good?”

He thought about it for a bit. “Yeah, it was good,”

“Was she hot?”

Enjolras pushed himself off the wall and strode towards the door. “Yeah, he was,”

The doorman’s lips formed a small “o” of surprise as the leader pressed past him. Enjolras grinned brightly at him, always jumping at the chance to break people’s stereotypes.

 

**Hey, are you busy?**

The text popped up on Grantaire’s phone two days after the party. Enjolras had his number because he had everyone in Les Amis’ number, but the only texts he had ever received from him were group ones informing him about meetings or plans for the group. So when he saw the name and the message, he had to do a double take to make sure he wasn’t imagining it. When he was sure it was real, he tapped out a quick reply.

**You know me, I’m never busy. What’s up?**

**Do you want to go get coffee?**

Grantaire stared at his phone screen for a solid minute before he was able to process the message. Coffee? As in…just them? As in two people sitting at a table, talking and drinking and eating?

**If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to ask me out, lol.**

The reply was quick.

**I am.**

The sincerity of it was so perfectly _Enjolras_ that Grantaire grinned first at the forwardness and second at the meaning. His heart slammed and his hands shook as he returned.

**Where and when?**

Enjolras texted back.

**Now? I’ll pick you up.**

Grantaire glanced in the mirror on the other side of the room and caught the reflection of a disheveled man with hair like a wild sheep and paint smudges all across his face and arms. He knew he looked a mess, but he couldn’t bring himself to say no to Enjolras.

**Sure, let me know when you’re here and I’ll come down.**

Enjolras didn’t reply as Grantaire hurried to change and scrub the paint off of his face. He tugged a brush through his hair, but it only seemed to make it worse. Instead of pursuing any more attempts at his curls, he shoved a black beanie over them and assessed the damage in the mirror. He still looked like a starving artist with a panic about his face, but at least now he was somewhat presentable.

Just then, his buzzer rang.

“Someone by the name of Enjolras to see you, R,” Gates, the doorman, sounded through the speaker.

“Tell him I’ll be right down,” Grantaire replied and shoved his wallet into his pocket, then grabbed his coat and hurried out the door. Of course Enjolras did the gentlemanly thing and came inside, instead of just texting him. Of course he did.

“Hey,” Grantaire breathed as he came down the stairs. Why did he take the stairs? There was a perfectly usable elevator just feet away. Now he was out of breath…

But if he was out of breath then, he was suffocating when he saw Enjolras. The blonde was dressed in dark jeans and a crimson button down shirt, collared and everything. He suddenly felt completely underdressed and shifted uneasily in his gray t shirt and paint stained jeans (even when he changed, he couldn’t find any that were clean, so he opted for the least bright ones).

“Hi,” Enjolras smiled at him. “You look nice,”

Grantaire scoffed. “You didn’t tell me I was supposed to dress up,”

“You weren’t,” the blonde blinked at him innocently, then looked down at his own attire. “I didn’t,”

But a faint flush of color dabbed at his cheeks, and Grantaire had the sneaking suspicion that he was lying.

“Do you want to go?” Enjolras asked. And Grantaire could have died right there, dropped on the floor and gone pale and cold, because Enjolras extended his arm like a _fucking escort_. He stood there, arm bent and sincere look about him, and R couldn’t move because he was still getting over the fact that Enjolras should have been born in the fifteenth century.

“I’d love to,” he said finally, and hooked his arm through the other man’s. It felt a little strange, but Grantaire could not have given one less fuck. And was that a smug look Enjolras gave Gates as they passed by?

Once they were sitting at their table, Grantaire had already had the car door opened for him twice, the shop door once, and his chair pulled out for him. What the fuck was this?

“So,” he said. “You’re big on the chivalry stuff, huh?”

Enjolras tilted his head slightly. “What do you mean?”

“Opening doors for me and everything. It’s all very knightly,” he smiled and imagined Enjolras in a suit of armor. The thought was funny, but also freakishly fitting.

“That’s just being polite,”

“Right, of course,” Grantaire scratched at the back of his neck and ordered a coffee from the waiter. Enjolras did the same.

The two sat across from each other, eyes flitting about the room and hands gripping mugs once they arrived. It hadn’t really hit Grantaire until this exact moment that he was on a date with the person he had been in love with for years. This, right here, was what he had wanted for as long as he had known Enjolras. And he couldn’t even manage to break the silence.

“How’s the coffee?” Enjolras asked. Grantaire smirked at him lightly.

“That’s the best you could come up with?”

“What?”

“We’re both grasping for something to talk about, and the best you could come up with was ‘how’s the coffee’? Come on, Enjolras, even I have standards,” he laughed, taking a sip as he watched the realization sink the blonde’s shoulders down and ease a smile on his face.

“Yeah, I suppose that was a stretch,” The sound of his chuckle was autumn at dusk. “Well, what are we supposed to talk about now?”

“We find out about each other,” R said easily. “For instance, I have no idea what your favorite movie is, and that’s a problem,”

“Hercules,”

Grantaire popped an eyebrow. “Are you serious?”

Enjolras gave him a daring glare. “Is there a problem with that?”

“No, I just…didn’t have you pegged as a Disney kind of guy,”

“Maybe you didn’t have me pegged at all,” Enjolras half-smiled and sipped on his coffee. He was definitely doing that on purpose. He had to be. There was no way a man could be so mind numbingly attractive and not be doing it on purpose. Grantaire hoped his cheeks weren’t as red as they felt.

“Well, are you going to ask me what my favorite movie is?” he urged.

“I already know what your favorite movie is,” Enjolras looked at him as if that were to be expected. Like _of course he knew what Grantaire’s favorite movie was_. Of course.

“What?”

“It’s The Lord of the Rings. Well, when you’re sober. When you’re drunk, it’s The Sound of Music,”

Grantaire’s mouth hung open. “How did you even know that?”

“You said so, on Jehan’s birthday, when we all went ice skating,”

“Enjolras, that was _two years ago_ ,” Grantaire said, disbelieving.

Enjolras shrugged and sipped his coffee. “Has it changed since then?”

“No, I mean…you remembered something I said from _two years ago_ ,”

The blonde shifted slightly in his seat. His eyes glanced hurriedly at Grantaire’s, as if looking for something he had done wrong.

“Should I not have?”

And that was it. R burst out laughing, his hands falling to his heaving stomach. It wasn’t so much funny as adorable, but laughing hysterically was the only appropriate response he could manage. He threw his head back and let it all out, then met Enjolras’ worried eyes.

“No, Enjolras. It’s just…unexpected,”

“Unexpected,”

“Yes, unexpected. In a good way,”

“In a good way,”

“Stop repeating everything I’m saying, will you? It was sweet,” And if Grantaire’s cheeks hadn’t been red before, they most definitely were now, as Enjolras smiled proudly from across the table.

It was true, Grantaire had only seen three romantic comedies in his entire life. And all three times, he had scoffed at the cliché stereotypes and lines. He had rolled his eyes every time one of the characters gushed about their “true love” and actually walked out of the room once after a particularly poorly written scene. But when he looked outside and realized for the first time that it was dark out, and that they’d been sitting there talking for three hours, he silently paid a bit of respect to the films. Maybe time really did stop sometimes.

“I guess maybe we should go,” Enjolras sighed.

“Maybe we should,”

They sat there for another minute, just enjoying the silence of each other, until Grantaire stood and grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair. He held the door for Enjolras on the way out.

Once they had arrived back in the parking lot of his apartment building, Enjolras turned off the car and sat stiffly.

“Thank you for coming out with me,” he said, and Grantaire had to laugh because it was Enjolras and _of course_ Grantaire would go out with him. But, _it was Enjolras_ , so of course he had to be polite.

“Thank you for asking me,”

They sat there a while longer, Grantaire making no move to get out of the car and Enjolras not hurrying the process.

“Do you want to…come up?” R asked, a hand reaching behind his head to scratch at his curls. Was this something he was allowed to do? Everything in him said no, but he had done it anyway.

Enjolras’ breath hitched. “If you’d like me to,”

Grantaire couldn’t tell if that was what the blonde wanted, but he decided to just take what he could get and smiled, nodded, got out of the car and led him upstairs. Gates eyed them as they walked.

“Can I get you anything?” Grantaire asked once they were inside. A flash from two days prior popped into his head, and he mused at how different the situation was now than then.

“No, thanks,” Enjolras returned, hovering near the door. Grantaire nodded and looked around. What the hell was he supposed to do now? Yeah, real bright idea it was to invite Apollo himself up to his apartment. It wasn’t like he could just lure him back to his bedroom and seduce him (though if Grantaire had dreamt of that on multiple occasions, it was anybody’s guess).

“I had a really good time, Enjolras,” Grantaire said eventually, despite the panic drilling into his brain.

“So did I,” There was more silence.

“Um…do you want to…sit down?”

“No, I…I should probably go,”

“Oh,” No, that was not a pang of disappointment sinking at the pit of his stomach. It most definitely was not. He shuffled over to the door to see Enjolras out. “Well thank you, for coffee and everything,”

“Of course,” It may have been Grantaire’s imagination, but he could have sworn the blonde hesitated before he stepped out the door. “Goodbye, Grantaire,”

“Bye,”

He was just about to shut the door, emotions completely rampant in his head, when Enjolras placed a surprisingly forceful hand on the wood. He pushed it back open, revealing a thoroughly stunned artist, and marched inside. In an instant, his hands were grasping R’s shoulders and pulling him closer and wow R could feel the other’s chest against his and _was he kissing him?_

He was. For the briefest moment, and also the longest Grantaire had ever experienced, their lips met in a frenzy of built up passion and suspense. Grantaire thought he might dissolve, because how could this really be happening? And Enjolras had chosen his _shoulders_ of all places to grasp as he kissed him, but it was alright because _he kissed him_.

When it was over, Enjolras pulled away. He looked Grantaire in the eye with a look that mimicked a frightened deer, then spun around and slammed the door behind him.

Well. That was one way to make an exit. 


End file.
